


And You're Alive Again

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Immortality, The Big Reveal, immortal!Molly Dawes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4740143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Molly dies, she and Henry learn they have much more in common than either would have guessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You're Alive Again

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking "What if Molly died when she got stabbed in 'Memories of Murder,' but then came back?" for a while. So, when I realized I didn't like the first fic I wrote for this ficathon, I smushed immortal!Molly together with Henry's-Secret-gets-revealed-to-someone-besides-Jo, and I ended up with this.
> 
> First time I've actually finished a Forever Ficathon fic instead of pulling out at the last minute. :o \o/ Thanks to truthisademurelady/idelthoughts for continuing to host these awesome ficathons, and to everyone who cheered me on—you peeps rock.

Molly hated dying.

Hours later, sensations still bombarded her, leaving her overwhelmed, raw, cold. The world felt wrong. Stepping from Henry's bright bathroom into the modestly lit hallway hurt her eyes. Beneath her damp, bare feet, cool tile gave way to smooth hardwood, and she clutched the door frame to steady herself.

"You doing okay?" a rough, unfamiliar voice asked.

Molly jumped, and jerked her head in the man's direction. Through squinting eyes, she saw a man with gray hair and a concerned expression. Abe, she remembered. Henry's roommate.

"I..." She considered her answer. "Yes, I think so." Was that her voice? It sounded strange. She cleared her throat, and she spoke again. "I'm guessing Henry told you what happened?"

While she rubbed her eyes, Abe said, "That you have as much trouble staying dead as he does? Yeah, he told me. Though I don't think he gets the, ah—" He waved at her face, then started down the hall. "—this postmortem hangover thing you seem to have going on."

_Postmortem hangover._ "That's a good name for it," she said, and her voice sounded more like her own. "He doesn't?"

"Not that I know of." Abe shrugged. "But who knows with him?"

She took a deep breath, trying to anchor herself to reality. The surrounding scent of Henry helped—his shampoo in her drying hair, his soap, his detergent on the NYPD hoodie and sweatpants he'd given her. "Speaking of Henry—where is he?" she asked, and followed Abe. "Is he okay?"

"He's on the phone," Abe replied. "Kind of freaking out. You gave him a pretty big scare today, _and_ you're forcing him to come out of the immortal closet." Then, to himself, he added, "Maybe I should throw him a party later..."

Henry's familiar voice drew closer, and an unexpected calm filled Molly's mind. She listened to him speak, not caring about his words, just the cadence of his voice and the richness of his accent. Henry, who'd done all he could to save her. Henry, who'd been waiting for her at the East River, a white towel in his hands and empathy in his eyes. Henry, who she trusted.

She trusted Henry. How long had it been since she'd trusted anyone? Too long? But he knew her biggest secret, and he seemed to understand.

No. Henry _did_ understand, because he was like her. Excitement bubbled inside her. Henry was immortal, like her. No more wondering, no more worrying that she was the only one like this. She wasn't alone.

Once she and Abe reached the end of the hall, she brushed her thoughts aside. Henry paced the length of the living room, as much as the telephone cord and furniture would allow. "I need to explain a few things to Molly first," he said, dragging a hand through his already wrecked curls. "I know I owe you a thousand explanations and at least a hundred apologies, and I assure you, you will get them."

"Go ahead and have a seat," Abe told Molly, and nudged her shoulder. Henry didn't notice. "He should be done in a second. I'll go fix us some tea—or something stronger, if you want."

"No, thank you. Tea's fine," she said, though she didn't want either. "I want to have this conversation sober."

"You sure?" Abe asked. "'Cause his story really is pretty long and pretty weird..."

"Really, Abe, I'm fine with tea," she said, giving him a smile. "I have a pretty good idea what to expect; my story's rather long as well."

Abe didn't look convinced. "All right," he said, shrugging a shoulder. "Your funeral...or not, I guess."

Until he spotted them, Henry kept talking. "I promise I will tell you everything soon, but I need..." He trailed off, gaping at Molly, then he spoke to his caller again. "I'm so sorry, Jo. I'm going to have to call you back."

Without waiting for a response, Henry hung up the phone and rushed to Molly's side. "Are you all right?" he asked, taking her hands in his and leading her to a chair. "How are you feeling?"

_You're immortal,_ she wanted to say, but asked, "Where do I even start?" instead. "My thoughts are all..." She waved a hand. "God, I don't know." _Overwhelmed_ bled into _terrified. Grateful to be alive_ battled the nervous churning in her gut. Confusion, worry, shock, joy—they tangled with each other inside her mind, each nearly as strong as the other.

_Henry is immortal, and he knows that I'm immortal._ stood above the rest.

Abe excused himself to the kitchen, sparing a moment to squeeze Henry's shoulder and murmur, "Good luck, Pops," in Henry's ear.

Molly's eyebrows shot up, and once Abe had gone, she turned to Henry and asked, "You're his father?"

"Please, have a seat," Henry said, gesturing to a chair. "Yes, I am Abe's father."

As she perched on the edge of the cushion, she tried to imagine Henry being someone's father. Kind, odd, _immortal_ Henry, a father. It made sense. "How old are you?"

"Tell me, does anyone over the age of maturity enjoy being asked that question?" Henry asked, cringing, as he sat on the couch. Molly started to apologize, but Henry chuckled. "It is a valid question, however, and the answer? I am...old. Very old. But enough about me. I'd rather hear about how you are doing?"

"I'm fine," she said, folding her hands in her lap.

Henry steepled his fingers under his chin. "Are you?"

Molly forced a chuckle. "I'm not used to being on this side of the questions, Henry." Then, in a more serious tone, she said, "I'm doing as well as can be expected, I suppose. Everything feels a little weird right now, though—physically, I mean. More...intense, I guess?"

"Odd." Henry tapped his chin. "I'm not sure if I've experienced that. If I have, it's certainly been a while. Perhaps I've simply gotten used to any sort of sensory overload and don't notice it anymore."

"Or maybe it's just psychological," she said. "Dying is rather...traumatic, after all."

"Indeed. And being murdered is worse." With a weak smile, he added. "I've been there." Then, in a more enthusiastic voice, he said, "But, you might be pleased to know that there were no witnesses besides myself and Detective Martinez. She led Ms. Schroeder from the room before you died, and she didn't have enough time to call an ambulance before you passed. And then you vanished. So, your secret is safe for now."

"Is it?" she asked, and Henry frowned, his brows drawing together with confusion. "I mean, you're sure I can trust Detective Martinez? Does she know about you yet?"

"Ah, no, not yet. But Jo is a dear, dear friend. She's shown remarkable faith in me, even when I didn't seem to deserve it, and she's been there for me when I've needed someone. I don't trust people lightly—not anymore. Believe me, I have experienced my fair share of lessons in the inadvisability of blind trust. Perhaps more than my fair share, actually, to the point that I trust almost no one." He glanced toward the kitchen, and with clear love in his voice, he said, "Except for one person I trust absolutely."

"Your son."

"My son. He's a bit less...cautious than I—"

"Try 'less paranoid!'" Abe called out.

"I didn't ask you," Henry shouted back. "And stop eavesdropping!" To Molly, Henry said, "Abe believes I can trust Jo, and I trust Abe, so, to answer your question, yes." Henry's eyes met Molly's. "I am positive that we can trust Jo Martinez with our secret."

He didn't sound convinced, but that was likely the best endorsement for anyone's character that Molly could get from a person as wounded by their past as Henry. More of her anxiety faded away, and her shoulders sagged with relief. She exhaled, and said, "Good. That's...good."

Henry leaned back, and, tilting his head, he studied her face. She could almost see the wheels turning in his clever mind as he analyzed her. His unrelenting gaze trailed over her, almost palpable against her skin. Her stomach squirmed. She wanted to look away, to run. But Molly held herself still, allowing him to come to his conclusions, to form his mental picture of her. It would be rather hypocritical for someone who profiled everyone she met to shy away from someone else's scrutiny, wouldn't it?

Besides, being the subject of such intense focus? Was kind of hot.

"You color your hair, yes?" he declared, once he'd finished his inspection.

Molly stared at him for a moment, bewildered. "What?" she asked, and reached up to touch her hair. Of all the questions... "Oh, yeah. Why? Is something wrong with it?"

"I just thought you should know that it's darker now—too dark for damp blonde hair. Your death must have restored it to its natural shade." He let out a thoughtful hum. "I have never encountered—or even considered—this issue before. Quite interesting. I shall have to add it to my notes. It could be significant."

With a wave toward his own head, Henry continued. "Mine always returns the same length as it was before my most recent death. I've not tried any sort of permanent hair coloring on it, however. Temporary, yes, which has always disappeared, of course."

"Of course." How was her hair even important? She hadn't noticed the change after her shower, too busy adjusting to the rest of the world to care. He seemed to expect her to say more, though. "I haven't died in years—since before I started bleaching my hair."

"This wasn't your first death?"

"No, it wasn't. It was my fourth."

"Only four?" Abe said, carrying in a silver tray that held an antique tea set. "Guess that means you're a lot younger than him, then."

"Mm, not necessarily," Henry said, as Abe prepared their drinks. "Throughout my life, I've been rather—"

"Reckless?" Abe suggested.

Henry blew on his tea, then took a sip. "I was going to say 'incautious.'"

Abe snorted. "You're a reckless idiot, and you know it." He handed Molly her cup. "Need I remind you of what happened on that bridge a few months ago?"

Scowling, Henry loudly set his cup on its saucer, and retorted, "That was an accident."

"Yeah," Abe said, taking his cup and sitting beside Henry. "A stupid and entirely preventable one. Seriously, for such a smart guy, you should know you have to look both ways before you lean over and pick something up on a busy road."

Though their bickering was entertaining, and she appreciated Abe lightening the mood, Molly spoke up, interrupting them with, "I'm a lot older than I look, you two." She started to take a sip of her tea, a dark-colored tea with a rich aroma, but her stomach protested, so she put her cup aside, on a nearby table. "Just...more careful, I think."

Giving Abe a smug look, Henry said, "See? A small number of deaths is not indicative of an immortal's age, although the opposite might be true."

"Whatever," Abe said, with an eye roll and tone reminiscent of a teenager. Then, he turned his attention to Molly. "Okay, please don't slap me or anything for what I'm about to ask, okay? It's kind of considered rude by a lot of lovely ladies, and asking it usually doesn't end all that well for me, believe it or not—"

"Because you are an absolute scoundrel," Henry said.

"And proud of it," Abe said, smirking at Henry. "What is it the kids say these days? I've 'got game?' 'Cause I've got tons of it."

"I'm not sure where it came from," Henry said, with a long-suffering look. "I could've sworn your mother and I raised you to be more dignified than that."

Molly couldn't resist teasing Henry. "Says the man who's dating a dominatrix." She nudged his calf with her bare foot, and earned a weak laugh.

"Oh no," Abe said, wrinkling his nose, "we are _not_ going there. Uh-uh. I do not want to know what you two get up to when the two of you...you know.

"Anyway, considering the circumstances, I've gotta ask: Molly, how old are you?"

Molly and Henry's faces fell, and a frisson of fear passed through her. Though she and Henry were both immortal, and Abe knew of their shared trait, secrecy was a difficult habit to break. "Henry first," she challenged. "Or you, Abe."

"Me?" Abe asked, and took a long drink of his tea. "Oh, I'm not that interesting. Just a regular ol' mortal like every other septuagenarian out there. Henry, though..."

"I am 235 years old," Henry said. "I'll turn 236 this September."

A sharp laugh escaped Molly's throat. "You're kidding me."

His expression grim, Henry said, "I'm afraid not. I died for the first time in the 1800's and, well. Here we are."

"Here we are," she repeated, setting aside her untouched tea aside, and she calculated the numbers in her head. Two hundred thirty-five, almost two hundred thirty-six. Over a hundred years between them. She was less than half his age. Jesus.

But it made sense. The little clues added up—the way he talked, his whole demeanor, his clothes, the pocket watch. It made sense. She'd often wondered how long she might live her impossible life, especially after her sister died. Even at one hundred ten, she could hardly wrap her mind around hitting one hundred fifty someday.

And Henry was older than that.

Molly opened and closed her mouth, trying and failing to find the right words. "That's..."

"Completely true," Henry said. "Obviously, I cannot prove that I am that old, but I assure you, this is the absolute truth. Whether you believe me or not, well..."

"Of course she does," Abe said. "She's got the same condition as you. Why wouldn't she believe you?"

"Molly?" Henry said, quietly.

"Abe's correct," she said. "I believe you."

"Truly?" he asked. 

She nodded. "Henry, I'm over a hundred years old myself. Why wouldn't I believe you? Two hundred thirty-five isn't exactly what I was expecting, but...I mean, I've known you were an old soul since the day we met. I just thought...I don't know what I thought. That your quirks were an aesthetic choice, perhaps, or that you were brought up somewhere without much technology and still hadn't caught up..."

"More like some _when_ ," Abe said. "Almost the same thing."

"'The past is a foreign country,'" she quoted. "'They do things differently there.' And I know that from experience, so, yes, Henry, I believe you." She paused. "You were shot, weren't you? The scar on your chest?"

"The scar on my chest," Henry confirmed. "Flintlock pistol. Point-blank range. Absolutely no chance of survival."

"I'm sorry," she said. "That sounds...horrific."

"There are worse ways to go, I've found. Unfortunately."

"I bet." She tried to think of another response. She failed. Instead, she moved on, and asked,"But how did you come back? How did I come back? There has to be a reason we're like this, right? People don't just come back from the dead—it doesn't happen."

"I know," Henry said. "But it happened to us."

"It did," she said. "But how, though? You said you were keeping notes. Have you figured out why we're like this? Or do you know a way out?"

"He knows diddly-squat," Abe replied.

"Thank you, Abe." Henry scowled at Abe, then turned back to Molly. "I've been a doctor since the beginning—"

"That doesn't surprise me," she said.

"I doubted it would," Henry said, giving her a wry smile. "However, in spite of that, I am, regrettably, still as in the dark about the specifics of this condition now as I was two hundred years ago. I've been seeking answers for my—for our immortality for years, but even after all that effort, well. I still have, as Abe so eloquently put it, 'diddly-squat.'"

"That's discouraging." She wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes, all hope of a normal life evaporating in an instant. Her chest ached, empty and hollow. Ever since she'd lost her sister, she'd been hoping for a way out. Henry Morgan was brilliant, likely a genius. If he hadn't found an escape from their nightmare, who would?

When she opened her eyes, she found Henry and Abe looking at her, sympathy in their eyes. "'Be careful what you wish for,'" she said, bitterly, "right?"

At Henry's raised eyebrows, Molly elaborated. "When I was dying that first time, I didn't want to. And I kept praying that I'd live, right? I'm not sure I believe in any kind of God now, but I was terrified, and Caroline—my twin—she still needed my help getting away from her awful, awful husband. I still had to save her.

"But there was a knife in my back, and I knew I didn't have a chance." Her eyes burned with tears, and she wiped at them, and tried to blink them away. Memories flooded back: Caroline screaming her old name, Sarah. The cold, hard knife. The terror. Death. "I kept praying, though. I kept begging God not to let me die, because Caroline still needed me, and I was so scared..." Her voice broke.

"I'm so sorry," Henry said. "You don't have to tell us anything you don't wish to."

"I want to, though." Molly sniffled. "I haven't had anyone to talk to about these things in a really long time. I feel like I can talk to you two, and you two won't tell anyone."

"We won't tell another soul," Abe said. "Neither of us."

"Yes," Henry said, nodding. "We have a lot of practice keeping secrets. Yours will be protected as well. Molly, I promise."

"Thank you," she said, brushing away more tears, and she mentally shoved the old memories into their hiding place. "You're really sweet—both of you."

"He is," Abe said, his voice serious. "Me? Meh. But my dad here? He's one of the best people you'll ever meet, if not _the_ best."

Henry ducked his head and let out a laugh. "Abe..."

"What?" Abe shrugged. "You're a good man and a good father, Henry, and I think it's important she knows that."

Henry and Abe shared a brief, wordless conversation, which ended in Henry sighing in defeat and saying, "You are too kind," to his son.

"Nah, not really," Abe said. "Just honest. And now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll leave you two alone for a bit. Let the grown-ups sort things out some more while I pick up a few things for dinner." Abe squeezed Henry's shoulder and got to his feet. "Want me to go talk to Jo, too? I know the whole thing should come from you, but I can, ah, go give her the basics before she decides to come back and kill you for not telling you sooner, if you want."

"That would be a good idea, yes," Henry said, and he smiled up at Abe and patted Abe's hand. "Thank you. She should still be at the precinct, I believe, most likely questioning Ms. Schroeder."

"Got it," Abe said, and started to step away, but Henry caught him by the wrist.

"And make sure Jo knows I intend to tell her everything, please—the whole story. She deserves it."

"Yes, she does," Abe said, then leaned over and murmured something in Henry's ear.

"Oh dear God." Henry groaned. "I've told you how I feel about those sorts of sentiments, Abraham."

"Yeah, yeah," Abe said. "You'd rather have a blunt instrument shoved through your spleen than deal with me being proud of you." Molly choked on a giggle. "I remember. You have a very—" He waved a hand, searching for a word. "— _vivid_ way of describing things when you actually talk about your feelings, Henry. It's kind of disturbing, to be honest. But you wouldn't be you if you weren't weird, so I guess I'll keep putting up with it."

Abe said goodbye and left, and Molly and Henry sat in silence. She took the time to study Henry's face as he'd done hers, while he stared vacantly toward the stairs. _What was he thinking_ , she wondered. No need to hazard a guess—Henry was an enigma, and any theory she came up with would probably be wrong.

"What's on your mind, Henry?" She took Abe's place on the couch, jolting Henry from his reverie, and kissed his cheek. "It's okay. You can tell me."

Sounding amused, Henry asked, "Are you asking me as a therapist or as yourself?"

"Whichever one you need," she replied, draping an arm over his shoulders and snuggling against his side. "Whether that's Professor Dawes, Mistress Payne, or Molly is really up to you."

"I'm not sure I could handle a visit from Mistress Payne, I'm afraid," Henry said, placing his cup on the table, and he ran a hand over his face. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he continued. "It's been a harrowing day, worrying about you. Needless to say, my tolerance for pain of any sort—be it physical or emotional—has gone down dramatically today."

She climbed on his lap, and with a sigh, he slipped an arm around her back and pulled her close. "I thought for sure I'd lost you," he said, his dark eyes huge, and he leaned his forehead against hers. "When I saw the scissors and the blood..."

"Shh, it's okay," she said, and fumbled for his other hand, wanting to offer much-needed proof. "Henry, I'm okay. I'm alive. See?" She pressed his fingertips to her neck, over her pulse. "My heart's beating. I'm breathing. I'm alive. I'm still here."

"Still here," he whispered, with wonder in his eyes.

"Still here."

Bridging the gap between them, she kissed him. Henry's eyes fell closed, and he let out a tiny, pleased noise as he surrendered, kissing back with the same tender enthusiasm, though letting her lead the soothing slide of lips on chapped lips. His rough stubble brushed her skin, not unpleasantly, and she smiled into the kiss. Henry seemed to love kissing, to love being kissed and touched and held. He deserved it.

When they separated, warm fondness filled Molly's chest as Henry breathed her name.

"I'm right here," she said, and rested her head against his once more. "You're a good guy, Henry Morgan."

His eyes fluttered open, full of affection and emotion. "You are not so bad yourself." He kissed her again, a fleeting press of his lips to hers. "In fact, I seem to be developing real feelings for you, Molly Dawes."

Her stomach dropped. "You're not gonna run away from them, are you?" she asked, keeping her tone playful.

Henry hesitated to answer, his reasons easy to read—fear, heartbreak, pain. Centuries of pain. Molly spoke again. "This doesn't have to be 'Happily Ever After,' Henry. Just because we're both immortal doesn't mean we have to be soulmates."

But they would likely be in each other's orbit for a while, bound by their odd shared secret. No one else would understand. No one else _could_ understand. They'd need each other when the burdens of eternity became too much.

"Ah, no," Henry said, finally. "No, it doesn't. But what about now?"

"You're not ready, are you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is. The way you avoid real feelings at all costs." Molly stroked his cheek. "Whoever she was, she hurt you pretty bad, huh?"

Henry glanced away, and that was all the confirmation Molly needed. She gave him another kiss, on the corner of his lips. "We can move as slow as we need to, honey. Take it a day at a time like everyone else. And if you just want to be friends, I'd be okay with that. I'd kind of like to keep you around in some capacity." Then, lightening her tone, she added, "At least we'll know who to go to if we need a friend with benefits."

"Molly!" Henry said, though his scandalized tone fell apart with his laughter.

"You fucked me in a morgue," she said. "You have no idea how long it's been since someone surprised me like that. I had a really good time. And you wanna know another secret, Henry?"

"If it's related to what you just said about the morgue, I have a feeling I do."

She leaned in closer, and said, "I've always harbored a damsel in distress fantasy," against his ear. "Almost being saved by a dashing doctor was...it was kinda hot. But you can't tell anyone, okay?"

"Mm. Wouldn't want to ruin your credibility with the dominatrix community, would I?"

"No." She got to her feet, and she tugged his tie, getting him to stand. "There's a lot more stuff we can try, if you want. Maybe without either of us dying next time. After all, I haven't seen your bedroom yet."

Smirking, he said, "No, you have not, have you?" and he slid his hands down to the small of her back.

Molly grinned. "Shall we go to your room, then?"

"I wouldn't want to go anywhere else."


End file.
